


Taken for a Ride

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Community: eleven_romana, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canton Everett Delaware III is asked to track down a mysterious woman (spoilers for 'The Wedding of River Song').</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the same Romana as in my previous [eleven_romana](eleven-romana.livejournal.com) story, [Among the Jarveys of the Metropolis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489709).

I could tell she was trouble the moment she walked into my office. 

It was a warm April afternoon, and the time was two minutes past five. With my feet on the desk and a glass of Bourbon in my hand, I was sitting back in my swivel chair wondering how I'd manage to pay the rent, let alone Polly's wages. I did that a lot: business had been slow for weeks. Months, maybe. Sometimes it even felt like I hadn't had a case in years, or centuries. Outside the window, a couple of ballooncars were hovering. I recognised one. It belonged to the local debt collectors, and to my way of thinking it was hanging around my office like a pterodactyl circling a dying aurochs. 

Then she walked in. She wasn't much to look at: pint-sized, blue, dressed not much different from any other Mikorian I'd seen. But comparing her to everyone else I'd seen that day was like comparing a panther to housecats. You don't last long as a private detective if you can't spot trouble coming your way – and this chick was trouble with a capital everything. 

"Mr Delaware-Three?" she asked. 

"Delaware the Third," I said. 

"Oh, so there aren't two more of you elsewhere in the building?" Her voice hadn't been what I expected; she'd sounded like a society hostess wondering if I'd make up the numbers at some garden party, and certainly not like she wanted me for anything important. For a moment I wondered if she wanted me to find some missing pooch, and I started to get my speech together about how the Delaware Detective Agency doesn't do lost dogs -- unless the money's right, of course. But then she spoke again, and I realised there was more to this thing after all. 

"There's someone I want you to find." 

I took my feet off the desk and leaned forward. "Take a seat. Now, Miss...?" 

"Just call me Fred." She sat down, facing me across my desk, and looked at the litter of papers. "I hope I'm not distracting you from more important business." 

"It'll keep," I said. "Who's this person you're looking for?" 

She shrugged. "That's the trouble. I can't describe him. Or her." 

"You mean you've never seen them?" It was possible, I supposed. "You mean there's a gang or something that's got a down on you, but you don't know who the guy at the top is. Something like that?" 

"Not quite. I'm pretty sure I've met them. At least, I can deduce that I must have done. But try as I might, there's hardly anything I can remember about them. Just a feeling of missing time." She glanced at the wall clock. "Of course, you probably wouldn't feel even that. You can't miss what you've never had, can you?" 

I looked at the clock, but I couldn't spot anything wrong. Two minutes past five, just like it should be. 

"See here, lady," I said. "What you've told me isn't a case, and I can't take it on. I'd just be wasting your time and mine." 

"You don't have any to waste," she said. She didn't say it like it was a threat, just a casual statement of fact. 

"That's as maybe." I sat back and studied her, trying to work out if she was in her right mind. Problem is, when someone's a blue alien the size of a nine-year-old, it's not easy to tell what they're supposed to behave like in the first place. "Are you sure you shouldn't be seeing a doctor?" 

She hid it well, but I was sure I'd got through to her then. Her fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. 

"Quite sure," she said. 

I poured out another slug of Bourbon. "So what d'you want me to do? Apart from find someone you can't remember if you've met or not?" 

"Well, that's the thing. I'm pretty sure there's someone else mixed up in all this. A woman with an eyepatch. I saw her just before I met... whoever it was." 

"And you want me to find this dame with the eyepatch? You reckon she knows something?" 

"That's about the size of it." 

"Can you describe her?" 

"Middle-aged, with dark hair. May I?" She took a pencil from the tobacco tin on my desk, and an unpaid grocery bill from my in-tray. On the back of the bill she sketched a picture of the woman she'd been talking about. Even in the sketch, you got the notion that this wasn't the sort of dame you'd want to mess with. 

Fred, if that was her name, waited until I'd studied her drawing, then asked "Is this a case now?" 

"I'd say it is, lady." I coughed politely. "But we'll need to discuss terms." 

She nodded. "That shouldn't be a problem, as long as you don't need to stage a naval battle in the Millennium Amphitheatre. I've got a few savings." 

We haggled for a bit and settled on a daily rate that would keep me in drink and cigarettes for a while, with maybe enough left over to pay Polly's back wages. Plus a finder's bonus if I came up with the goods. She left me a number I could call if I had any news for her, and then saw herself out. I watched her from the window. There was a black cab waiting for her outside the street door; as soon as she got in, it lifted off and joined the queue of ballooncars waiting to get into the East Circular stream. 

*

They say all monorails lead to London, and everyone in the world ends up there sooner or later. Finding one dame with an eyepatch in the middle of all that lot wasn't going to be easy. But if I'd wanted easy, I'd never have left Pope Richard's personal guards in the first place. And finding a needle in a haystack is always easier when you can ask the hay. 

Once I'd seen my client safely away, I went out to make a tour of some of the bars I knew, drinks courtesy of her first down payment. They weren't the sort of place you'd want to take your date -- at least, not without a couple of guns each and a team of Viking mercenaries to watch your back. But when you're looking for information, you have to get it wherever it grows. 

I didn't have any luck at the Inferno, or at the Kaiser's Head. All the talk in the Wooden Torch at Canary Wharf was of a treasure galleon that Lord Cochrane had captured -- plenty of eyepatches there, but no-one had seen one on a woman. When I got to the Vauxhall gardens, I found the place closed. The man on the gate said a Stuka had made an emergency landing there with a full load of bombs, and they were waiting for UNIT to make the area safe. 

I finally got what I was looking for in the basement of the Bear Garden in Southwark. Officially, there isn't any such place, but if you know the right door to knock on and the right things to say, you can find yourself down several flights of stairs, drinking mead with the sort of people who know more than they like to let on. With the girl I was talking to this time, that included her name. Unless she really was just called 'Ace'. 

"Long time since we've seen you here," she said. "What are you looking for?" 

"Who says I'm looking for anything?" I said. 

Ace laughed bitterly. "Do me a favour. No-one comes here unless they want information. Or bear guts. Tell me it isn't bear guts." 

"Why not?" 

"'Cos I haven't got any to sell." She shrugged. "'Course, I could always tell you who has. That worth anything to you?" 

"You don't give anything away, do you?" 

"A girl's got to eat." She shivered, and pulled her threadbare bomber jacket tightly around herself. By the look of her she'd been living on the street for a while, and I wondered when she'd had her last proper meal. 

"So maybe I'm not after bear guts. Suppose I wanted information?" I took out my wallet. "One florin a question?" 

"Three and twopence." 

"Half a crown." I tipped out a pile of change on the table. 

She looked hungrily at the money. "Done." 

"Right. Do you know this woman?" I showed her the sketch. 

"Yeah, I do." 

"Where can I meet her?" 

"Don't know why you'd want to." She took a swig of mead. 

"That wasn't an answer." 

Ace sighed. "Try Smithfield. But seriously, you don't want to." 

"Why not?" 

"Because people who try and get hold of her don't come back." 

"Who's been trying to do that?" 

"Sixpence a name?" She looked at my face, and shook her head. "Nah. The names wouldn't mean anything to you. They're not coming back, that's all." 

I settled up with Ace and left quietly. I didn't risk calling Fred until I was half a block away from the Bear Garden. I checked that no-one had followed me, ducked into the doorway of a cigar divan, and put the call through on my mobile. 

"I've got what we want," I said. 

"Not before time – oh, except that doesn't really apply to you, does it? Where is she?" 

"Smithfield. At least, that's what I've heard." 

"Then I'll meet you there. Shall we say at two minutes past five?" It sounded like she found it funny, but I didn't get the joke. 

"I suppose so." I tried to think of somewhere we could be sure of finding each other without looking conspicuous. "See you under the clock in the meat market. But I need to tell you what my informant said–" 

"Tell me when we meet." She hung up. I glanced down at the telephone, and then back at the door of the Bear Gardens. A couple had just come out, and by the look of them they hadn't been there for the bear guts either. The woman was a redhead, dressed in black. Nice legs, I supposed, if you liked that sort of thing. The man with her worried me more. From his clothes, you might have said he was a workman, but every time he moved you could see he wasn't. He was alert, glancing about everywhere for danger. I wasn't sure if he'd been in the police, or the Navy, or the Legions, or all three. 

But I was sure of two things. First, I'd seen those two somewhere before. And second, whoever they were, they were on the same trail that I was. 


	2. Chapter 2

I got to Smithfield dead on time, at two minutes past five. But when I got to the meat market, there wasn't the slightest trace of my client. Most of the stalls were closed at this time of day, but after a while I managed to talk to one of the locals – a cheerful Australian who called himself the Butcher of Brisbane. At least, that was the sign on his stall. He said he'd been there all day, and hadn't seen any little blue aliens – or women in eyepatches. 

I thought I'd better start asking around, so I left the market and crossed to the Peasants' Camp. The guys with the banners weren't any more help. They were too busy protesting about the Hundred Years' War, and the Seven Years' War, and the illegal occupation of the Papal States by the French. But just as I was trying to get away from some blonde hippy chick who wanted to tell me about all the people she'd ever chained herself to, I felt a hand on my arm. 

"Excuse me, sir," a voice said. I knew that tone. A beat cop's a beat cop, whatever you dress him up as. This one was one of Cromwell's Ironsides; I'd noticed a handful of them hanging around just in case the peasants tried anything. 

I tried to look like a responsible citizen. "Can I help you, officer?" 

"If you'd like to come with me, sir?" It wasn't the sort of question that only had one answer. I let him guide me away; behind me, I could hear the blonde calling him everything from a Fascist to a Cathar. Once we were far enough away from the peasants not to be heard, he stopped. 

"Sorry about that, sir," he said. "But did I hear you say you were looking for someone in an eyepatch?" 

"Maybe," I said warily. 

"Sergeant Will Hughes," he said, and produced a purple card from a pouch on his belt. "Imperial agent. What's your interest in this woman?" 

"I'm a licensed private detective," I said. "I've been hired to find her." 

"Finding her's easy," Hughes said. "Getting close to her isn't. My department's tried to find out who she's working for several times, and they aren't the only ones." 

"I've heard. People tried, and they disappeared." 

"Right." For a moment I wondered if Hughes was going to suggest some sort of partnership. But if he had been thinking of that, he decided against it. "So you go and tell whoever's looking for her not to bother." 

"Now just a minute–" 

He drew his sword. "Beat it!" 

I beat it. 

*

Of course, you don't get to be a private investigator without knowing how to keep an eye on someone. The moment I was out of Hughes's sight, I doubled back through the Drovers' Rest, came out behind a blacksmith's van, and made sure I could see where Hughes was and what he was doing. For a while, he stood around with the other Ironsides, but then he looked up and headed off with the sort of casual walk that'd fool most people, but not a suspicious-minded PI. 

I followed him, keeping my distance. He looked round a couple of times, but I was always far enough back to duck behind some pillarbox or roadside shrine. We covered several roads like this, before I managed to catch sight of the person he was following. It was the dame in the eyepatch, all right, and she looked even less cuddly in the flesh than in Fred's drawing. She was wearing a nondescript sort of black business suit. I only got a glimpse of her, and then she was round the next corner and out of sight. 

When I got to that corner, I found myself in an empty alleyway. There was no sign of Hughes, or of the woman. I pulled out my automatic, and took a couple of steps forward. As I did, there was a click of a door closing, about halfway down the alley, on the left. 

I crept up to the door, listened at it, and tried the handle. It didn't budge. Then I saw blue light flickering around the edges of the door, and there was a crackling noise that sounded like the Devil was frying dodo eggs for his breakfast. Hughes's voice shouted something, and I heard his pistol fire, but it was a one-shot deal. It would have taken him half a minute to reload, and he didn't have half a second. The crackling and flashing built up to a roar, and then cut out with a _snap_ and a stink of burning. 

During this I'd been hammering on the door, and then trying to break it down. As the light show went out, I heard the timber round the lock beginning to give, and a couple more good kicks sent it flying. With my automatic at the ready, I advanced into the building.

Thinking back on it, I reckon what my client called 'missing time' must have happened to me, because the next thing I remember is standing there in the middle of an empty warehouse with the gun in my hand, and the smell of cordite and burning was ten times worse. When I had a moment later, I checked my ammunition. I'd used enough to be sure that whatever had happened, it wasn't a tea party with a vicar. But the only person I can remember being there was the dame with the eyepatch. There wasn't any sign of Hughes, except for a few bits of blackened armour on the floor. 

I decided that whatever had been – or still was – in this room, I didn't like it. 

"You," I said. "You're coming with me. I've got questions for you." 

She scowled. "Whoever you are, you've interrupted me at a very inconvenient time." 

"Tough." I gestured with the automatic. "Come on." 

She seemed to realise that arguing wouldn't help, and stalked out of the building. I kept close behind her, just in case she had some idea of making a break for it. 

"Do you realise what you're getting involved in, you silly little man?" she said. "My organisation aren't going to let you get away with this." 

She pointed at the sky. I could see the silhouettes of gyrocopters weaving between the ballooncars, heading this way. 

"Whoever they are, they're not here yet," I said. "And before they do, you're going to tell me where she is." 

"Where who is?" She sounded as if the whole situation didn't bother her in the least. "Was one of those amateur spies yours? We've had to dispose of so many." 

"This was–" I began. 

"Raise your hands!" a woman's voice shouted from above. 

I looked up. The rooftops on both sides of the alley were lined with soldiers. Whoever they were, they couldn't be anything to do with the gyrocopters; those were still some way away. With the sun behind them, I couldn't make out a lot of detail, but I was pretty sure the woman with the megaphone was the same one I'd seen coming out of the Bear Garden. 

Of course, the moment my attention was distracted, my prisoner made a break for it, heading for the entrance of the alley. I ran after her, but she'd got enough of a lead that I wouldn't catch up with her before she got to the end. Behind me, the soldiers were climbing down into the alley on ropes, but they wouldn't get her either. If anything, they'd get me. Or perhaps when those gyrocopters got here, they'd blow all of us up together. She'd almost reached the end of the alley– 

– And suddenly a black cab pulled across the entrance. The back door opened and the woman dived in. She tried to pull the door closed behind her, but it wouldn't. Then she tried to jump out again, but it was too late. I was already at the door. I dived in. The door slammed behind me, and the taxi leapt into the air before the soldiers could reach it. 

"Nice work, Mr Delaware," the driver said, looking back at the two of us over her shoulder. "And dead on time, too. Two minutes past five." 

It was Fred, of course. 

*

We were somewhere outside London, speeding over a plain of what looked like glass. We'd dodged the gyrocopters by keeping low and slow, blending in with the traffic – then, once we'd passed the M25, Fred had hit the gas. 

"I suppose that's one advantage of this stupid thing you've done to history," she said. "When you've got Victors air-to-air refuelling eudimorphidons, no-one thinks twice about a flying taxi with an obviously alien driver." 

With my gun held on her, the dame with the eyepatch wasn't in a position to do anything but talk. But since she _could_ talk, she was obviously going to make the most of it. 

"What makes you think I've done this to history?" she snapped back. 

"Ah, so your version is that you're an innocent victim who just happened to get caught up in the time bubble? And then you fell in with the wrong crowd?" She shrugged. "In a sense, it doesn't matter. This isn't my battle." 

"Hang on," I said. "What do you mean, it isn't your battle? What are you doing all this for?" 

Fred let go of the controls and looked back at us. 

"Let's start at the beginning," she said. "A few days ago – well, that's a meaningless expression here, but let's pretend it isn't – someone took a ride in my taxi. I can't remember anything about them. Does that ring a bell with either of you?" 

It sure did with me, after what had happened in the warehouse. 

"And what makes you think I know anything about that?" our prisoner asked. 

"I wasn't sure until I got a chance to talk to you. But from what Mr Delaware here says, it's pretty clear that you're working very closely with these suspiciously unmemorable people. Aren't you?" 

There was no answer. 

"Anyway," Fred continued. "The next time you see them, I'd like you to let them know that they still owe me six thousand sovereigns for their cab fare. They might be able to make people forget them, but whatever they do doesn't work on my taxi meter." 

It took the dame with the eyepatch some time to take this in. 

"You've done all this for the sake of a _taxi fare_?" she managed, in the end. 

"Plus interest, and Mr Delaware's somewhat generous fees. And yes, I have. Do you imagine you're serving a higher purpose? That's people's favourite excuse when they don't have any intention of paying." 

"So... I pay you, and you'll let me go?" 

"Pretty much, yes. Of course, if you _don't_ , that nice young lady with the red hair is probably offering a substantial reward for your capture." 

Our prisoner scowled. "I'll write you a cheque." She made as if to reach into her jacket, and looked at me. "Don't worry. I'm not going to try anything." 

"Just take care you don't," I said. She didn't, but I kept my gun on her the whole time. 

"And to whom should I make it payable?" 

"Just put Fred's Taxis," my client said. "It'll save trouble spelling my full name." 

I waited until the cheque was signed and dated, and passed it forward. 

"Thank you." Fred turned back to the controls, and began to bring the taxi lower. "I'll set you down here." 

I was still keeping my eyes on our prisoner – who was called Kovarian, if I'd read her signature right – but out of the corner of my eye I could see where we were heading. The glass plain we'd been flying over had given way to turf, and there was a colossal stone circle dead ahead. 

"Welcome to Stonehenge," she said, as the taxi came to a halt twenty feet in the air beside a solitary standing stone. "And I hope you enjoyed your journey with Fred's Taxis." 

The door beside Kovarian opened. She looked, for a moment, as if she was going to argue, but thought better of it. 

"Oh, savour your ridiculous victory, both of you," she said. "But you won't enjoy it for long. You've made some very powerful enemies today." 

"Well, I always say you can judge a Time Lady by the quality of her enemies," Fred replied. 

That went home. For the first time since I'd seen Kovarian, she looked completely flabberghasted. And before she could come up with any reply, the taxi door had shut again and we were already rising. 

"What'll happen to her now?" I said, looking down. 

Fred shrugged. "She's hoping her allies will come for her. Which they might, but I'd put my money on the other side getting to her first." 

"Why?" 

"Because I just sent them a message saying where she is." 

"You said this wasn't your battle." 

"It isn't, and I shouldn't be putting my thumb on the scales like this. I was brought up to observe, not intervene. But... call me sentimental, but I couldn't resist a little intervention." 

"Hang on," I said. We were heading straight up, far enough that the sky was beginning to darken from blue to black. "Where are we going?" 

"Somewhere far, far away." She looked back at me. "Madame Kovarian had a point, Mr. Delaware. If you or I remain in this timeline her associates will try to kill us." 

"So you've got a hideout lined up someplace?" 

"If you like." She pulled a lever on her control panel. Green light swirled around us, as if we'd plunged into a tunnel of luminous cloud. "A pocket universe. Very secluded. If all goes well, we should be able to return to normal space when the time bubble collapses, and I can cash that cheque." 

"What is all this about time bubbles?" I asked. "And how did you get mixed up in this, if this isn't your battle?" 

"I picked up a message from inside the bubble," she said. "It said that an old... let's call him an associate of mine... was dying. Just about everyone in the Universe was sending their condolences, but I thought I'd be a bit more hands-on." 

"This guy, was he a friend?" 

"Once. Then again, one day he dropped out of the sky and tore down my world. Would you blame me if I held a grudge against someone who did that?" She looked away for a moment. "Any other questions?" 

"Only one. Why bring me with you?" 

She gave me another one of those alien smiles. 

"Call it old times' sake, Mr. Delaware. I don't expect you to remember it, but in another timeline we knew each other quite well. You were responsible for an important prisoner in Area 51, and I..." 

"Go on." 

"I suppose you could call me a delivery driver." She turned back to her flying, as we plunged on through the Vortex. "Where do you think your government got all that dwarf-star alloy from?" 


End file.
